Addictions and battle scars
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: 'See, John? It's our battles, our addictions who make us who we are. It's our own personal battles, our demons sent to ruin us if we do not conquer them. See John? These marks show you are brave, that you survived. These are our battle scars.' Rate and review pleasee!


_For Trufflehead. Thank you for keeping me motivated! :-)_

* * *

People automatically think of Sherlock as the one who has the addictions.

While they are not wrong, people usually overlook the small blonde ex-army doctor. Sometimes it just gets all too much.

* * *

It had all started when he was 15. John's parents, he had remembered, had been arguing- over what, John couldn't remember. He had escaped to the safety of the bathroom, John's safe haven. His father, Ricky, couldn't get him there. However, he couldn't say the same for his mother, Esme- the harsh slap sounded thought the dingy flat and it made the boy cringe.

John bit back a sob and, while it may sound strange, he ran a bath. It always calmed him, as if washing away the experiences from his very mind. At least, that is what John had convinced himself.

Flicking on the tap, the steam curled and condensed on the mirror. John stripped off, trying to block his eyes from the grotesque man in the mirror and trying to also block his ears from the abuse being shouted by the man he had once called 'father'.

John winced as he plunged his foot into the boiling water.

With a funny jolt, he realised it, in a twisted way, felt _good._ In another way, he was relaved; he could feel. John Watson hadn't lost this ability- whether he should be cussing or feel grateful was weighing heavily on his mind.

Should he feel grateful because he could feel, he hadn't lost his feelings even after all of this torment…?

…Or should he be murderous, _angry _because it meant that he _could _feel the abuse that was hurled his way left right and centre?

John felt his breathing quicken, and become slightly more ragged. Calming himself, he bit his lip, drawing blood, as he quickly slipped all of his thin and bruised body into the still running boiling water.

His nerve endings were on fire, dancing and tingling in such a way that pain and pleasure were confused. John bit back a pained moan- he had forgotten the lashes on his back caused by Ricky's belt the day before. They now pulsed, throbbed, almost contracted under the heat of the bath… John felt his eyes fill with tears as he tugged at his short hair.

The pain, the pleasure… how could he be getting pleasure from _this? _Deep down, John Watson knew it was wrong, that this could soon spiral out of control… but another part of him questioned, _'do you really want this? It makes you happy.'_

He drew a ragged breath, feeling out of it as he grabbed his fathers razor. Smashing it with enough strength as to knock all the blades out, he scrabbled to pick them up before they made a noise on the floor.

John paused, his senses suddenly more sharp than normal. His blue eyes flickered to the locked door, before all around the room, to the sharp little piece of silver in his hands. One motion, just one, and it would all be over.

The next thing he let his senses explore was the pain. The throbbing of his back, the way the scalding water boiled the blood in his veins and blistered his skin, the bruise he now sported under his eye (when pressed) ached beautifully. More scars to add to the pale canvas of skin- this time, not one that was self inflicted.

The taste of blood in his mouth was disgusting- coppery, salty tang that made him want to gag. Why? It was probably where he had bitten his lip, or the way his fathers fist had connected there. Either way, it made John feel sick to his stomach-

Shit, the screams.

_Oh, God, Mum… I'm so so sorry._

They pierced the night, like a blade through butter, and made his insides freeze and heart clench. A few more sounds, banging about, and a harsh metallic clang before more shouts into the night. John realised one thing… the screams had stopped.

John closed his sapphire blue eyes, before pressing the blade down on his wrist. He watched the blood bead, before quickly running down the pale planes of his wrist. The fire consumed the nerve endings, making his hand jerk and his eyes water. He quickly did the same to the other wrist, watching the crimson blood swirl in the scalding water. The blood blossomed, forming shapes and random patterns, and John heaved a sigh. The blood loss was already making him feel pleasantly fuzzy.

_Not long now... God, I'm so sorry-_

'John!'

The fifteen year olds heart froze, and his foggy brain slid into action. He almost groaned when he saw his mother there, so like him in looks- her pale hair was ruffled, slightly matted with drying blood, and her wide blue eyes were terrified, looking at her ruined son.

Ricky had gone, then. John was very grateful, but when he saw the stains on Esme's trousers, he quickly regretted that and bit back a sob.

She ran into the bathroom, nearly slipping on the wet floor, and grasped Johns wrists. She was crying when she saw the damage, and Esme Watson heaved her son out of the bath and they both lay sobbing on the floor, Esme dialling for an ambulance _this goddamned minute._

'John, please hold on, I'm so sorry, so _so sorry_!'

'Mum…'

Her pale eyes turned down on her son, and he wrinkled his nose slightly when one or two of her tears fell on his face.

'Don't want to go…' John whimpered, suddenly realising how stupid he had been, how he _didn't _want to die, how his life meant something, how he could escape with his distraught mother away, far far away from Ricky…

'I don't want you to leave, John! Stay with me, please….!'

Everything, for John, went pleasantly black.

* * *

As Sherlock examined the scars, he raised an eyebrow and flicked his green eyes up to the doctors, just for a second. Sherlock then carefully analysed the doctors facial expressions- disgust, shame, remorse…

A crystalline tear escaped from both men's eyes.

Sherlock gently tugged the jumper further up Johns arms, revealing no scars, only fresh cuts, self-inflicted bruises and wounds. Sherlock flinched, and John blushed, averting his eyes.

'John…'

'I know,' said the good doctor, turning away grimacing. Sherlock was sure he saw a few more tears leak out of John's eyes. 'I've been stupid. I'm a moron. Say it Sherlock. I don't care anymore-'

'But I do.' Said Sherlock quietly. Those 3 words caused the doctors breath to catch in his throat, then for his breath to stutter, before the tears _really _fell. John gasped, clinging to Sherlock's jacket, burying his face in the smell of warm and soft and home…

'John.' Sherlock pressed his lips to Johns wrists. 'I love you. I'll be here for you, always.'

'I love you too.'

'Addiction is the worst, isn't it?'

'Yeah- wait, how would _you _know?' John pulled away from Sherlock, staring at the dark haired man in front of him. 'You're perfect, brilliant-'

With that, Sherlock undid his cuff buttons and rolled his sleeves up, revealing little purple pin-pick scars that dotted their way up his arms. John let out a soft '_Oh,'_ of understanding.

'See John? You're not alone.' The taller man drew the smaller into a hug, resting his head on John's flaxen hair, crying softly. Sherlock didn't wipe the tears away. He wanted to show John, the man he loved, the same one that was making his silk shirt all wet with tears, that he wasn't alone. 'See, John? It's our battles, our addictions who make us who we are. It's our own personal battles, our demons sent to ruin us if we do not conquer them. See John? These marks show you are brave, that you survived. These are our battle scars.'


End file.
